Destiny
by RaysenTra
Summary: In this Alternate Universe tale, Angel upsets the balance of power between Order and Chaos by taking his impossible war against the Senior Partners to their territory. But what is his ultimate goal? And how does Buffy figure into his plan?
1. Prologue

Prologue:

He's anxious. Time is running short and there are things still left to be done.

He's been waiting for him for a little over ten minutes but it feels like far too much time. The blood inside his mug's already cold and he's tapping the top of the desk with his pen frantically. Immortals comprehend eternity. Patience, regardless of the individual's inclination towards good or evil, is a virtue they all work hard to learn, perfect.

As a soulless murderer he played with his victims' fears. He prowled the nights stalking their every move, lying in wait, destroying their livelihood and murdering their loved ones just to drive them into madness. Haste in his deeds was never his way. Patience, on the other hand, was the key for reaching that one moment of ethereal bliss that came with each kill.

Murder for him could not be random. It had to be perfectly executed. He'd kill thousands over the course of his one-hundred and fifty year-long rampage, but only a select few, to his consideration and quite possibly his untamable ego, were truly his victims.

He was an artist, or so he led himself to believe. He was an invisible wrath that lay waste to hundreds upon hundreds of lives, destroying every single element of what made them special, unique. He prolonged death as much as he could bear it and could no longer restrain his satisfaction. Such darkness shrouded his life that he was eventually cursed.

His soul was returned to him and with it all the pain that he had caused to thousands of people tenfold, only to be released of it when he experienced a single moment of perfect happiness. Ashamed and reeling from unrelenting suffering he hid himself from humanity. Feeding on vermin and dwelling on dark alleys until one day a stranger came to him with a mission: to protect a girl, a very unique being that needed his help. The Slayer.

His life after that night has taken many turns. He fought by her side, a cursed demon alongside the Chosen destroyer of all demonkind on Earth, and he loved her, even after the day they parted ways. It was at this point where he was called unto a new mission. He became a Champion, fighting for beings of untold power. So ancient were these beings that they transcended the confines of names, and were quite simply known as the Powers-That-Be.

He fathered a child, a son born of his seed with that of another vampire, Angel's Sire, Darla. A child whose very role, very existence was determined and molded by one of the Powers a millennia before. A child that now lives seemingly unknowing of the truths of his origins.

Angel, however, continues his battle. After living a century and a half of abhorrent and abominable deeds, he dedicated himself entirely to fight for redemption until the day he came to the realization that the effort was misguided and decided to fight not for himself, but for every living soul on the planet. To show the world that it can be great.

So, it is remarkably easy to tell that a vampire like Angel knows the virtue of patience, even though at the moment he may seem entirely incapable of showing any.

The doors to his office open and a small breath of relief escapes from his mouth. Two men approach his desk. The one walking ahead sits in one of the seats opposite Angel. He looks at him and a small hint of disgust washes on his face. Angel opens a red-colored folder in front of him and passes it to the man before him. He takes it and goes through the contract inside.

"Everything we discussed before is already in there," says Angel in a cold tone. "Just the way it's supposed to be."

The man looks at him but says nothing.

"All I need is your signature and we're good to go."

The man flips rapidly through the pages and sets the contract down on the desk. He takes a pen, signs and initials it. Then, using a letter-opener sitting by, he makes a shallow cut in his right thumb and presses the bloody fingerprint lightly beside his signature.

As he retreats his finger the droplet of blood vanishes, as if it melted away into the sheet. Angel picks up the contract, closes the folder and places it on top of a pile of case-files.

"Thank you," he says with a sigh. "See to her; you're free to go. Just be here after sunset."

The man nods and rises from his seat. He turns for the door and his eyes catch those of the man standing behind him for a second. He looks back at Angel then walks hurriedly out of the office, followed by the second man.

Angel waits a moment in his seat. He taps his desk with all of his fingers as his eyes dart across its surface. He presses a button on his telephone and after a few moments a cheery, sickly sweet voice fills his ears.

"Yes, boss?" says Harmony.

"Did they leave?" he says in a quiet tone.

"You mean--? Yeah, just took the elevators."

"Good. Send a message to everybody in the building. Tell them to take the day off."

"Day off? That includes me?"

"Harmony..."

"Oh, you mean...today's the, y'know... the thing?"

"Yeah..."

He remains quiet for a moment, then picks up his mug and drains the contents on a nearby garbage can.

"Bring me some blood before you go," he says and presses the same button he did before.

He stands up and walks towards the windows. It's still early.

Much to do before nightfall.


	2. Chapter I

Chapter I: The calm before the storm.

Wednesday, May 19, 2004.

The beginning of the end...

The night breeze is chilling.

Wesley's been standing by the window for nearly an hour, calmly looking over the L.A. skyline. The misty sky seems darker than usual. He takes a deep breath and scratches his beard as he drinks from a mug. The warm liquid tumbles down the insides of his throat, slowly burning the walls. Time is running out and he's already late. He sets the cup on top of a nearby drawer. It reads "World's #1 Physicist" in large, bold letters, with little pink-colored hearts floating around the words. A small reminder of what he has lost. He turns back towards the streets outside and rubs his eyes forcefully. He takes another deep breath and turns towards the bed at the other side of the room. He picks up his gun, cocks it, and calmly accommodates it in its holster.

He takes a few steps away from the window towards the center of the room and picks his jacket from the bed. As he puts it on his eyes dart rapidly towards every direction in the room, taking in every minute detail of his surroundings as if he would never lay eyes upon it again. He walks towards the door and opens it slowly; doubt suddenly stays his hand. Then, quickly overcoming his hesitation, he turns off the lights and walks out of the room.

Inside the CEO's office of the L.A. branch of Wolfram & Hart seven warriors lie in silence. Fear grips their throats. Nausea and anxiety is beginning to claim some of them. They're uncertain, and even though the biggest spectacle of their lives is about to begin, they fight the urge to explode growing in their insides. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.

Angel's sitting on the far left corner of his desk. He quietly observes the mountains of light stretching outside his windows while he strokes his chin. He ponders in silence. Thinking. Calculating. He knows his companions are morbidly frightened; shaken to their very core. All but one.

He turns towards them. They're scattered across the office. Each trapped in their very personal corner of Hell. They all have made their decision. It had been very simple for them the very first time he told them. Their lives in exchange of a little more light in the Universe.

Death, however, is not the cause of their fear. What frightens them is the possibility that they might fail before they land the first blow. Angel knows this, yet he feels it necessary to know that they are not going to leave him. That all of them will fight nightmares without hesitation, fully comprehending what they will be leaving behind. That they will bleed with him willingly for eternity in order to fight for his ideal, even if only for just a moment. And his hope that, somehow after his body turns to ashes, his example will be followed and the war will continue to be waged.

Their silence comforts him.

Behind Angel, Spike pulls his feet from Angel's desk and pushes himself forward on his seat. He arches his back and a few bones crack softly then leans forward again and starts to clean the dirt under his fingernails. He's perhaps the least afraid of them. At the very least, he doesn't seem exhibit any traits of fear. Just cleaning his fingernails.

Beside Spike, Lindsey McDonald's reclined in his seat. His long brown hair tied together in a neat ponytail, he clutches a beer bottle in his left hand. He leans forward, puts the bottle on the floor and rolls up his sleeves. He picks it up and drains it from its remains. He tells himself that it'll soon begin, and once it does every piece will fall right were it belongs. All he has to do is wait.

The usually charismatic Lorne stands sorrowful by the door. He holds a half-empty Sea-Breeze in his hand. He looks at Angel by the windows then takes a swig from his drink. He can already feel the bottom of the glass quickly approaching. He stares at it. He knows he is doing the right thing. His faith in Angel remains unwavering, despite losing his faith everything else. He only wishes they could just get it over with quickly.

Harmony's sitting idly by in the couch near the back of the office. She's perhaps the one most obviously worried. She looks at Gunn beside her and sees him staring directly at his shoelaces. His legs outstretched on top of the small coffee table in front of the couch and his arms folded neatly unto each other across his chest, he's completely lost in thought.

She feels she shouldn't be here, but Lord knows this is the only place she can be.

Illyria is, perhaps, the most intriguing of them all. Seemingly unconcerned with the gravity of the situation. She's been standing in the same corner for nearly an hour, discretely staring at the elevator. They all notice it, but none seem to be concerned by it.

Waiting. Just waiting.

The elevator ride is taking far longer than usual. The anticipation's causing him to lose focus. His eyes fall over his weapon. Single barrel shotgun; seven shells allocated inside. He stares at the numbers in the elevator as they spring to life and die again, slowly marching upwards. Oddly, he feels nervous. He thought he had banished those feelings from his system.

Never seems to be the case though.

The door opens in the lobby. He steps out of the elevator and walks directly towards Angel's office, stepping over shards of broken glass, wood and cement. The atmosphere is dreadful, almost paralyzing. The walls are dented. The reception desk is broken in half. The staircase opposite the elevators is missing several sets of steps. A large column is shattered on the floor, while another is riddled with holes. Pools of drying blood are collected in several places, while ambiguous patterns of blood are splattered across the walls.

The place has never felt colder or emptier. Like a life-sucking vacuum.

He walks into Angel's office and sees everybody staring at him. He moves calmly towards Angel and stands beside him. "You're ready," Angel says without turning his gaze from the windows.

"Yes," Wesley responds sharply.

"Good. Let's get this over with."

Angel walks over behind his desk and, hesitating for a moment, grabs the large samurai sword with both hands from its resting place. He pulls the blade and takes a moment to carefully examine it. Then setting the sheath on the desk he moves around it towards the large doors leading to the conference room.

"All right, everybody," he says as he walks past them, "put on your game faces." They all stand up grasping desperately to their insurance. Spike and Lindsey each are holding broadswords. Charles Gunn clings to his axe with both hands. Krevlornswath never was much of a fighter, but the crossbow he clutches suddenly feels like another fully-functional, though somewhat unwanted appendage. Harmony Kendall carries an assault rifle. She holds it close to her heart, as if it contained powers that protect her.

Angel pulls open the doors and walks in. The doors leading to the lobby are shattered into splinters. The large conference table, though, is missing. A large opening in the windows to their right seems to be an indication that at some point in time it somehow must have been thrown down into the streets below.

Their attention, however, isn't focused on the chaos that erupted in the small room, yet on the man hanging by his arms on chains clinging to the ceiling. Blood drips from his brutally beaten face. His legs drooping on the floor, broken. He's drained. Beaten beyond recognition and disgraced.

Powerless.

Angel approaches him slowly, his feet crunching the broken glass scattered across the floor loudly. The man lifts his head and trembles fiercely, fighting with every dying breath in his body to break free of his bonds. Angel leans close to the bloodied man's face, pulls his katana and stabs him in the stomach. He shrieks uncontrollably with pain, spitting mouthfuls of blood. Angel twists the hilt of the sword and the shrieking turns to blood-curdling screams. A smirk suddenly appears in Angel's lips, but just as quickly he dismisses it. He puts his free hand inside the pocket of his coat and produces a tape recorder.

"Stings, doesn't it?" he asks in a whisper. The man continues to scream wildly. "Want me to stop?" Angel twists with even more pressure until the man chokes and vomits. He stops and listens closely. A whimpering hiss is discernible coming from his lips. Angel pulls out the katana and swings it to his side. Blood splatters on the floor across a line and the bloodied man grunts loudly from the shock.

He kneels before the bleeding man, presses the record button on the tape recorder and holds it close to his mouth. "Sing to me, birdie," Angel finally says.

The man looks at him. He turns his head away from him a bit and spits another mouthful of blood. He leans his head over the recorder and whispers into the microphone in an indiscernible low wailing. Once he finishes he looks back at Angel, who, in turn, puts the recorder back in one of the pockets inside his coat.

Angel stands back up and cracks open the shackles holding the beaten man to the ceiling. His body tumbles down almost lifeless. "Thank you, Marcus," he says in a sharp tone. "Be seeing you."

They walk out of the conference room leaving Hamilton's beaten body laying there. Once back inside the main office they take turns glancing at each other uncomfortably.

Silence befalls them for a moment.

"How do you figure he got those chains hooked to the roof like that on such short notice?" Harmony says cringing to no one in particular.

They all look up to her as if shocked by the sudden break in the silence that had absorbed them. "Sorry," she says in a low quivering voice. "Not the time."

Angel turns towards them. "Anything anybody wants to say before we go?" he says quietly.

They all look at him somewhat surprised. They had become so immersed in their fear and dread that for a moment every single thought they processed gave them a horrifying feeling of a sword being rammed through their chest continually.

However, nobody speaks.

"I know you're scared," he begins. "I know. Because I am too. Odds are we won't live through the night. No new sunrise; no tomorrow. That before we even take the first hit, they'll overpower us. And before we realize it, we are gone. I know none of you want to hear this, I know you dread it more than anything, so I'll only say it one more time: we will suffer till our last breath, and we will take as many of them as we can down with us.

"I asked you all before to be absolutely sure of what you were going to do. That if you walked in through that door tonight you probably would never set foot out of this building again. Your lives. Everything you are. Everything you can be. That's what you're giving up. Think of all the things you'll never get to do, because once we walk into that elevator it's over.

"So I'm gonna ask you all again one last time. Harmony?"

Her face turns dreadfully pale, as if the nature of her condition was desperately clawing itself free from the large amount of make-up trying to cover it.

He looks at her with a sharp stare. "Are you in or out?"

Harmony lowers her head, shying away from eye contact.

"Lorne?" he asks turning his gaze towards him.

Lorne sighs. "This has been an exceptionally difficult year for me, for all of us," he says. "Banner, you could say it was. So I'm thinking: dirt-nap possibly not such a bad thing after all."

"You're in?" Angel asks reassuringly.

"I've always wanted to be the one to sing my own swan song."

Angel nods approvingly, then moves on: "Illyria?"

He notices her piercing eyes already on him as he meets them. "I have no ties left to this life," she says frankly. "Everything I was is but an echo lost to me in streams of time. But my life is my own. I was asked before and I shall answer in kind to you as well: I shall join your crusade, half-breed, and I will lay my earthly remains to rest amongst the scattered ashes of my enemies."

"Thank you, Highness," responds Angel quietly. Wesley looks at her and as her eyes move to meet his, he turns his sight away towards Angel again.

"Gunn?" he asks next.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he responds.

"Spike?" he says turning towards him.

"What, leave and let you take home the glory?" he scoffs with a smile. "Not bloody likely, Liam."

Angel looks towards Lindsey.

"Here to do my part, big guy," he answers in a very hushed tone.

Angel doesn't respond. He turns towards Wesley then starts to look at each of their faces in turn. "Thank you," he says, then almost in a whisper: "All of you."

They remain quiet for a few seconds. A strange, immobilizing calm washes over them and soothes their pain in these moments. Then something unexpected happens. A smile of contentment suddenly comes across Gunn's face.

"What?" asks Angel quietly.

"Nothing, just," he says then, pausing, he loses himself in his thoughts for a moment until, "the good fight," he finishes resolutely. "This is it. Isn't it?"

Angel nods in response.

"I mean, I always knew what it meant, but now it's-- This is important, and we're here. We're all making it happen. It's, uh, it's--"

"Overwhelming," interjects Wesley.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly.

Angel takes a long look into their faces and he smiles. They are his reason to fight. It's their mission; together.

Spike, however, looks less at ease than the rest. He clears his throat slightly. "So, shall we?" he says.

Angel turns to him, still smiling somewhat. "Yeah," he says simply. "Let's go."

They proceed out of the office towards the elevators led by Angel, followed closely by Wesley, Spike, Gunn, Illyria, Lindsey and Lorne coming at the rear. Spike calls an elevator and the door slides open immediately. Then, with a deep breath, they all step inside.

Angel nods to Gunn who, reluctantly at first, presses several buttons in non-sequential order. A large white button materializes above the others shortly thereafter. Gunn steps aside and cedes the moment to Angel who presses the button lightly with his forefinger. Suddenly the elevator is bathed in a magnificent white light that engulfs their bodies, slowly devouring the elevator and everything in it.


	3. Chapter II

Chapter II: The magic code.

They materialize in a large corridor. The walls that enclose it on opposite sides shine with white light. The corridor, however, seems eternal. The White Room is nothing but a gigantic vacuum. Spoken words, even breath, feel like they are being swallowed by the very walls that surround them. Momentarily mesmerized by their surroundings, they separate for moments, each walking unconsciously on a different direction.

Angel grips the hilt of his sword. "Man," he says looking suspiciously at his surroundings, "never really get used to the sight of this place."

"Do yourself a favor," Gunn says with a dark look in his face. "Don't."

"Alright, people," Angel says as they all pace themselves, awkwardly gripping their weapons, "keep your eyes peeled and stay focused."

"Sure's quiet in here," Lindsey says at no one in particular after a while. He wanders away from the group for a moment. "So this is the infamous White Room, uh?" he says with a chuckle. "Heard a lot of mind-blowing stories on this place in my time."

"Well," says Lorne with a sigh, "mind-blowing sounds about right. The vibes I'm getting out of this place make the Vatican seem a lot like Disney Land. And that's saying something."

"I hear ya," answers Lindsey.

They walk around in silence. Anxiety builds as they wait for an ambush that doesn't seem concerned to show by their sudden arrival.

"Um," bemuses Spike, "not that I appreciate the fact that there isn't a giant demon army here to turn the bunch of us into dust bins, but why are we alone?"

"Probably 'cause we're all too needy," says Angel sarcastically.

"Well, there's that," retorts a cold voice from behind them, "or maybe we're just not the savage animals you take us for." They all turn suddenly towards the direction of the voice's origin. They find Hamilton standing a couple of meters away from them, a smirk embedded tightly on his lips. "Anything we can do for you?"

Angel stares at him completely dumbfounded. "Hamilton?" he asks in a whisper.

Marcus looks down his well-tailored suit and wipes something passing for lint from his shoulder. He gives Angel a dubious smile. "You're the Conduit," Angel answers himself coolly. "But why do you--?"

"Its appearance is determined by its audience," answers Gunn.

"How right you are, Mr. Gunn," returns the Conduit. "Again, I digress to ask, how may we help you?"

"The Senior Partners," responds Angel.

"What about our Masters?"

"We fancy a meet." interjects Spike.

"The Wolf, Ram and Hart are insubstantial, Angel," answers the Conduit. "You know that. They cannot access the Home Office unless they transmutate. And you know just how easy that always is to manage. Plus, even if they could, why would they answer your plea?"

Angel chuckles. "I'm sorry," he says. "You seem to have misunderstood me. I'm not asking you to bring them here. Why would I want that?"

The Conduit stares blankly at Angel, who simply glares back at it with a smirk across his face. "I cannot take you to them," it answers him. "So, do not ask me of that."

"Hmm, I wonder, what gave you the impression I was asking?" responds Angel, his expression becoming cold.

The Conduit remains still. Its sneer slowly morphs into a smirk. "Mr. Gunn," it says without taking his eyes off Angel, "perhaps you could illustrate to this half-breed exactly what will happen to him if he continues to direct himself to me in this manner?"

"Angel?" says Gunn nervously.

"It's okay, Gunn," Angel says, halting him and the others with his hand. "It's alright."

Lorne chuckles nervously. "Um, Angelcake, I know I signed on to, well, die and all, but I'd love it if I could just maybe live a little bit longer and I'm looking at a big, finely-dressed, hulking mass of muscles nigh ten feet away from me that's thinking otherwise," he says through gritted teeth.

"I said it's okay, Lorne." sneers Angel.

"Angel," says Wesley in a sharp, perhaps even angry tone.

He grips his shotgun and raises it in anticipation. Angel turns towards him and the exchange looks then, facing the Conduit again he pulls from his coat pocket the tape recorder he used previously to tape Hamilton in the conference room.

"We know," says Angel moving closer to the Conduit, "I know that you can get us to them. I'm not here to ask you anything. I just want you to do your job. That's all."

The Conduit looks at each of their faces. For a mere moment it seems unsure of itself. Illyria circles the group from behind and stands a few feet ahead of Wesley and Gunn, right beside Spike. Her form exudes confidence; her head held high with determination. She eyes every inch of the Conduit as if her senses are perhaps noticing something the others are completely blind to.

Once more the creature before them locks eyes with Angel. "What's the access code?" it says.

"Gunn?" says Angel.

Charles walks a little bit ahead towards Angel and recites with rapid-fire confidence: "Access Code: 3471X-8KLJ011-3."

The Conduit looks back at Angel. He takes note of the tape recorder in his hand. "I can assume that you have vocal authorization from your liaison?" it says. Angel smirks once more then, raising his arm, he presses play on the tape recorder.

A crude booming voice erupts out of the small tape recorder, speaking in tongues so ancient they have never fallen on men's ears. A gush of rasping wind blows into the room from the speaker, as if the little contraption were a broken window of a sinking ship in the ocean. Angel's arm quivers violently from the shock. He fights its will to break away from his grip before its message is said. The others scramble away from Angel, desperately covering their ears in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the fury of the words' rage.

And then, just as it had begun, it's over. As soon as the last part of the message was spoken, the recorder shatters under the pressure of Angel's grip. Blood splatters from the gash on the palm of his hand and as he recovers from the sharp pain, he lets go of the recorder. It falls to the ground covered in blood and vanishes like a drop of water that falls into a still lake.

Angel looks over to the Conduit who seems unfazed by the entire event. It sighs and takes a second to fix its tie, then: "Very well," it says, then pointing towards the distance behind itself, "Walk in that direction until you reach a doorway. They're waiting for you."

"Good," says Angel. "Let's move, people."

"Ah-ah," interrupts the Conduit. "Only three people are allowed in."

"Three?" inquires Angel with a hint of anger.

"Yes," replies the Conduit, "three."

"That's not gonna happen. We all stay together."

"I'm sorry, Angel. But that's the rule. It's clearly stipulated in the company policy. As provided in the Executive Emergency Access Grant clause in your contract, Angel--"

"No more than three individuals are to be granted audience by the Senior Partners at any one time," interjects Gunn.

"Precisely," the Conduit replies with a smile.

"You knew this," says Angel in a low tone. "And you were planning on telling me when exactly?"

"It's okay, Angel," answers Wesley. "Nothing changes."

"I'm sorry," says Charles. "We'll hold down the fort here."

Angel exchanges looks with everyone. He turns towards the Conduit and with deep exasperation he says: "Fine. Spike. Wes. We're leaving. Gunn?"

"Don't worry," he responds. "Go."

Spike and Wesley follow Angel in the direction the Conduit pointed them to. Once they are nearly out of sight from the others, the Conduit turns towards them.

"Well," it says, "wasn't that interesting?"

The others look amongst themselves with uncertainty. They had come to this place expecting an ambush that would obliterate them. Instead they remain standing still in the same place they were when they first arrived.

"I've been told by the Senior Partners to provide you accommodations while you wait for Angel to return," it continues as it points behind them.

They all turn around to find what seems like a replica of an elegant nineteenth-century house's living room allocated right between the walls of the White Room. The furniture, richly textured, sits over a beautiful burgundy rug. A small table in front of the central couch has a large silver tray containing an appetizing variety of hors d'oeuvres. Beside the table a light-blue colored demon with a very thin moustache in a butler's suit is standing holding a metal tray containing a freshly made Seabreeze, a glass of Scotch on the rocks and a bottle of homemade German lager. They look at each other puzzled by this turn of events and then back in the direction of the Conduit but find that it has disappeared, leaving them frightened, alone and with nothing more than drinks, food and a light melody playing quaintly in the background.

"This is seriously messed up," muses Lindsey.

"Cheer up, buck-a-roo," says Lorne patting him on the back. "Beats dying, if you ask me."

Angel, Wesley and Spike walk along the path they were sent on by the Conduit for what seems like hours. As their pace slows so does their penchant for light conversation. Each one of them seems to be utterly lost for words when the reality of the task at hand settles in deeper within their thoughts with each cautious step in their gait.

After a long while they see an outline stretching along the lengths of the walls at the far end of the room. They hurry towards it until it becomes discernible: the end of the White Room. As they approach it they notice a small indentation in the surface of the wall. They hasten their pace and until they reach a set of double doors as lily-white as the rest of their surroundings. They stop before them.

"So?" says Wesley.

"So, indeed," says Spike.

Angel inches himself from the doorway and touches the surface while he examines it. "Huh," he scoffs.

"What?" asks Wesley.

"It's wood," he says as he knocks mockingly on the door.

Then suddenly the doors swing open. A loud, creaking noise fills their ears as they stare at the never-ending, roaring darkness that was concealed behind them.

"That can't be good," he says as he takes a few steps backwards.

Spike puts his head inside the doorway and then back out again. "Well," he says, "I guess we finally know what a howling abyss looks like."

"Great," says Angel annoyed.

"So," says Spike, clearing his throat, "down we go into the rabbit hole?"

"Guess so," says Wes. "There'd better be a tea party." Without further wait he steps into the doorway and disappears down the abyss. Angel and Spike look at each other incredulously.

"Huh," says Spike, thoroughly amazed, "Looks like Percy's got more balls than I ever gave him credit for. Good for him."

They stare at the doorway in silence.

"So?" quips Spike.

"So," responds Angel in kind.

"So, you wanna--?"

Angel shoots a dubious look at Spike.

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Any minute now."

"Right."

Once again they both remain staring at the doorway in silence. A horribly uncomfortable silence.

"You do know that if by some measure of luck he managed to keep himself from becoming a permanent stain on the ground, he's very much alone down there, eh?" inquires Spike.

"You're right," concurs Angel, then without notice he slugs Spike in the back, pushing him into the doorway and down the howling abyss.

"Thanks for volunteering," he says with a snaky smile curling across his face.

He takes a step closer to the entryway then hesitates for a moment. "Just like swan-diving from a cliff into a bed of rocks, Angel," he muses. "Not at all painful." He exhales heavily then dives into the doorway and down the darkness inside.


End file.
